


Ouroboros

by LyricDreamweaver



Series: 33 Ocassions for TF2 Guro [33]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Blood and Gore, M/M, Surgery, Yandere!Medic, amputations, heavily implied sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 00:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13178136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricDreamweaver/pseuds/LyricDreamweaver
Summary: Tell me you love meCome back and haunt meOh, and I rush to the startMedic wants to keep his new Heavy for a few lifetimes or so. No big deal.





	Ouroboros

It was intimate, from the first incision to the last suture (though he didn't really need to stitch them up like stuffed toys since he had the Medi-Gun). There was so much trust they placed in him.  
And he did no harm, not really.  
The Classic team never really interested him. Sure, they had some fancy modifications, but that was outside his range of knowledge. The Medic dealt in blood and flesh, not metal and circuits.  
But the Heavy had remained unmodified, pure, free of the implants and prosthetics and replacement parts. And his size always made the Medic feel small, but he was no stranger to big men.  
All it took was the right bridle, strong reins, and a line about needing to see him in the operating theatre dripping with concern.

* * *

It's almost as if the weather has agreed with the Medic. It snows, blanketing the world outside his operating theatre in white and in silence.  
Inside, it's warm, but not overly so. It's just as quiet inside, the doves chased back to their cages, white heads tucked under their soft wings. Only Archimedes, always the rebel, coos softly, his red-strained body strutting about the cage, trying to peek under the canvas cover, pecking at the edges of the fabric.  
Medic rises from his desk, steps into the operating theatre, and doesn't even consider bothering with his gloves or doctor's coat.  
The sedatives have taken effect, the chloroform putting the Classic Heavy to sleep.  
He snores like a horse on the operating table.  
It's nothing the Medic's a stranger to.  
A simple incision, going for the Y-cut of the morgue instead of the I-cut he'd usually go for. But the behemoth of a man on the table isn't dead.  
The skin peels back like a book cover, falling open on bright yellow fat, red-stained bone, throbbing and humming of life.  
He breaks the ribs carefully, as if afraid breaking bone will wake him or shatter the Classic Heavy's whole body.  
But he doesn't stir, doesn't break into a million pieces, and the Medic sighs.  
Now he can touch as well as look and listen to every little process that happens inside the Classic Heavy. The thrum of his heart (and that silly little human thing with the thickened outer wall, the _hypertrophic cardiomyopathy_ ) and the rise and fall of his lungs (as smooth as the organs themselves, shimmering grey and pink and red in the theatre lights), the stomach (half-full and larger than any other human he's opened).  
Everything gleams and shines, like a thousand jewels in the man's torso, reflecting the bright lights of the theatre.  
He reaches in, cupping the heart gently, feeling it pulse and throb under his bare hands. It's perfect and intimate, but not nearly strong enough.  
He pulls, just hard enough, and twists like he's picking fruit and the thing comes free.  
The Medic takes it to the table, a dead weight dripping crimson through his fingers, dripping on the tile. He presses his lips to it, just once, and sets it in a jar, labelled just moments after he saw the man, and digs in the fridge until he pulls a gorilla heart, the only one he's found that's stable enough to endure multiple Charges, already outfitted with the device.  
He doesn't drop it into the Classic Heavy's chest Instead, he opts for a delicate approach, placing this heart like a crown jewel upon it's bloody cushion, massaging it into his chest.  
It beats once, twice, sporadic then settling into a slow, powerful throbbing.  
Medic's panting as he places the bones back in their places, the skin sewed up neatly, almost like an embroidery piece he could hang in his office. He trains the Medi-Gun on the Classic Heavy and runs a hand over the fresh skin.  
He dresses him carefully before going to wash up, catching red on his face and grinning at himself in the mirror with bright, white teeth.

* * *

He adapts nicely, all things considered. The gorilla heart beats slower, but more powerfully, blood pressure the same as it would have been with his human heart, which now rests on his desk, encased in embalming fluid, kept perfect and wet and shining and red, the muscle swimming in preservation and eternity.  
Sometimes he taps his pen against the glass, wondering if he can replace more of the behemoth of a man, if he can turn him into something beastly and even more attractive.  
The thought keeps him up late nights and painfully hard.  
But, as all Heavys do, this one demands the Medic to trust him.  
They're like handsy teenagers and hungry mountain lions. They grab at each other, expressing interest in low whispers and clutching at each other through their clothes. And when they get a moment, they bite and claw, Medic always needing to take something to ease his hoarse throat and a painkiller for the ache in his back.  
As nice as it is to serve the Heavy like this, Medic always feels empty, like something more needs to be given.  
He lays in bed, the Classic Heavy snoring at his side.  
There's not many options to consider. Asking would be a waste, with the Classic Heavy's temper. And he could just experiment and experiment until he's satisfied, but he needs to keep him unaware and helpless, exploit his trust for some greater reward.  
The Medic lays his head on the Classic Heavy's chest, thinking while a beast's heart ticks away in the larger man's chest.

* * *

Medic hums as he finishes the last of the sutures and wallows down the arousal clotting his throat. This time, he can't risk using the Medi-Gun, can't risk all his progress.  
He wraps the stumps tenderly, smiling. It was the only way he could ensure the Classic Heavy would be kept in Medic's grasp. He'll be furious, but he can't do much more than yell, considering his legs and arms are gone.  
Oh Medic will miss the way the Classic Heavy's hands fit around his throat, but it's a noble sacrifice, the price of dealing with devils.  
He finishes wrapping the last of the Classic Heavy's wounds and makes a move to dispose of the limbs.  
"The fuck did you do?"  
Medic turns, a sharp movement, and he grins even sharper. "I didn't expect you to be up so soon. I haven't had time to clean yet."  
"You took them . . ."  
"Yes." Medic nudges his glasses up with the heel of his palm. "Is that a problem?"  
The Classic Heavy begins to scream and the Medic's not really prepared for that, fumbling for a syringe with blood-slicked hands. Only once the sedative has started to make it's way through the Heavy's system, does Medic's own pulse slow.  
"Bastard."  
Medic replies with a kiss to the man's temple, humming as he goes back to cleaning up the operating theatre.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank everyone who commented and left messages of support for this collection. It's taken years to finish but it feels good.
> 
> <3 <3 <3


End file.
